Ilya’s knitting needles are clicking rhythmically while he sits on the floor, his back up against his couch, when he realizes that the scarf he started on the plane with Anne is a respectable enough length to call it “finished.”

Ilya stands up from the floor and holds the working needle up in front of his face, watching as the scarf falls to the ground, the end of it piling slightly on his carpet. He hums to himself. So that’s that. . It hadn’t actually taken him that long considering. Maybe two weeks or so?

“Da. That will do.”

Nodding to himself, he pulls his phone out of his sweats pocket, opens the front camera, and slides over to the wide-angle lens. The introduction of the wide-angle lens to the iPhone had been a revelation for Ilya. It’s far and away his preferred method of snapping photos. Every contact photo for his team is some photo where their forehead appears massive due to Ilya’s wide-angle technique.

He squats to the floor, extending the arm holding his scarf as high above him as he can, while lowering the hand holding his phone as low as possible. Grunting, Ilya adjusts his stance so that he is semi-squatting to get the full range of his not insignificant armspan for the picture. He looks down to the camera, eye brows raised, almost brushing his curls, and snaps the picture. The resulting photo is exactly as Ilya imagined. Squatting, Ilya snickers as he studies how the fish-eye effect makes the scarf look simultaneously comically long while also making Ilya look like he’s in a fun house mirror. Perfect. Ilya grins he types It’s doneeeeeeeeeeeeee and sends the photo.

Still squatting, hunched over his phone, Ilya thinks that if anyone were to suddenly appear in his house, they would be met with a Russian hockey player doing his best impression of Gollum between the couch and the coffee table. Ilya giggles to himself as he straightens.

Stretching his back out, he walks to the kitchen to prepare a protein shake before practice. He’d pick up food and finish the scarf when he got home this evening. Ilya’s phone buzzes as he starts the blender.

Anne🧶

Today, 11:45 AM

Ilya

It's doneeeeeeeee

Anne 🧶

oooooo! also tim says hi

Ilya hearts the image and goes to change for practice.

Ilya blows an errant curl out of his eyes as he keys into his home, his hair still damp from the shower at the rink. Practice was good today. He skated hard and he skated well. Ilya loves the games, especially the games with Shane, but if anyone were to ever ask him (which they don’t), Ilya would talk about how he loves practice too. He would talk about how, yes games are incredible, but that they are spiky, jittery (yes that’s the word—jittery) highs, Ilya on a knife point between ascendance and plummeting to earth. Practice? Practice is a steady ramp up, his body working harder and harder over the course of hours, to end with Ilya soaring over the rink, his skates an extension of himself. That’s the consistent climb that sustains Ilya, sustains him through everything.

Assuming a reporter would ask any type of follow up after the hypothetical question, Ilya would answer that most of what happens that makes a team a team happens in practice. In practice is where the social history of a team is constructed, where inside jokes are made, where relationships are built; in the day-in-and-day-out repetition of practice. So yes, practice is where Ilya finds everything he so desperately craves; camaraderie, value, company. And yet, although practice was good today, Ilya finds himself eager to return to the quiet of his home. It’s a private feeling, almost a remarkable feeling that Ilya savors due to its rarity.

The fact that Ilya was going home to knit feels so surprisingly out of character for the Russian that it feels almost illicit. Ilya chuckles to himself as he plates his takeout bag on the counter and clicks the kettle on for his Ivan Chai, thinking about the image of him fully kitted out on the bench, a knit project bundled next to him.

“What’s that Rozanov’s got next to him?” Ilya affects an announcer’s cadence speaking to the crowd as he grabs napkins and extra ketchup for his cheeseburger. “Well, Bob it looks like Ilya Rozanov has taken up knitting! And the crowd goes wild!”

Ilya snickers to himself, chewing around a french fry. No, he’ll be keeping his new hobby to himself for a while longer. He wants to savor it, guard the secret like it's something precious, because in a way–it is. It’s a new facet to Ilya that no one is aware of; one he doesn’t feel the need to bottle down out of shame or danger. It’s just something that he wants to keep as his. Ilya so rarely gets anything that’s his. Everything that he has had since he was twelve years old someone has laid claim on; his hockey skills (Again Ilya. Again. Again. Run it again.), his time (You have a sponsor meal at 4pm), his body (Turn to the left, abs in frame Ilya, abs!), his love (I have to get back to my room).

In a so-fresh-it-feels-tender way, everything about this was Ilya’s and only Ilya’s. Anne was his friend. Ilya hadn’t even told Shane about her, wanting to savor the secret, the easy companionship, the selfish need to covet something as his. So for just a little longer, no one is going to know about her. No one knew that Ilya had spent most of his free time the last two weeks knitting. That sometimes, when he was doing laundry or driving home he thought about what his next project was going to be, about what yarn he was going to use. All of this made Ilya happy and for the first time in a long time, something that made Ilya happy was his and only his. And on top of that it was something so completely innocuous and uncomplicated that the familiar hot curl of shame or guilt that usually plagues the things Ilya enjoys is nonexistent. The absence of those feelings feels a lot like freedom. Ilya has been told he is selfish his whole life, so he will relish this feeling just a little longer.

Make no mistake, Ilya will let Shane in, but he wants the reveal to be right. He wants it to be this scarf. The first thing he’s ever made–he wants Shane to have. Ilya wants to peel himself back for Shane, allow him to burrow into this new fresh, downy wrinkle of Ilya’s and make himself at home –Look. You don’t know all of me yet. I can learn. I am soft, so soft Shane. I want to be good, Shane. Ilya feels his hairline prickle as he flushes thinking about him and Shane and the ways that they are soft with each other; the press of Ilya’s hand on Shane’s stomach as his cock drags in and out of the other man; the way that Ilya’s clothes, strewn about the floor upon arrival, always find themselves folded neatly on the table by the time he has to leave (always underwear on top, then pants, then shirt); the way that Shane takes Ilya’s sharp edges as they come, lovingly softening them down–never softening Ilya–just taking his edges in his capable hands and molding them into something beautiful, something that Ilya can love.

Ilya rubs his nose with the back of his hand as he moves his meal over to the couch and clicks on the television, pressing play on the next episode of The Sopranos. Ilya eats his food contentedly, his eyes frequently straying to the scarf on the couch next to him.

When he’s done with his food, Ilya walks it all over to the sink, washes his hands, and grabs a damp rag to wipe the table down with. Not usually so careful, Ilya will be damned if the last two weeks of work are soiled by an errant glob of ketchup. Satisfied with his workstation, he sits down and starts to cast off the scarf.

He finishes his cast off, and rummages through the Raiders tote bag that has randomly become the place that Ilya stores his needles and the pair of kitchen scissors he scrounged up, and cuts the yarn with a six inch tail that he pulls through the last stitch. He still doesn’t have the needle that Anne did to thread the tail through the rest of the stitches so Ilya ties a few more knots, shrugs to himself, and cuts the tail.

He holds the scarf up for inspection and feels a wave of apprehension wash over him. Looking at it now…the scarf looks a little–well, a little ragged. There’s some gaps in some of his stitches, a hole or two that Ilya somehow knit around so that his whole scarf didn’t come apart (which he has no idea how he managed that), and some of the edges look sort of rough. He picks his phone back up.

Anne 🧶

Today, 11:45 AM

Ilya

It's doneeeeeeeee

Anne 🧶

oooooo! also tim says hi

Ilya

one question

what did you do with first thing you knit

if it is bad?

Looking at it even longer makes a surge of embarrassment flood through Ilya. He can’t give this to Shane! It looks horrible. Shane will laugh at him, will not understand that this was something that Ilya made with his own hands, used to create and soften instead of harden and win. Ilya feels his heart rate start to pick up as his emotions shift from embarrassment to anger. What a waste of time. All of this and for what? To make something badly? Something ugly? Ilya feels the high he was riding a few moments ago be yanked out from underneath him.

“Fuck,” Ilya swears as his phone rings with an incoming call. Ilya blinks, noticing that he has been clenching the scarf, pulling it taught, between two fits.

“Fuck fuck fuck.” He lets go of the scarf and watches as it falls on the couch, a little more ragged than before. “Oh no no plea–no no.” Ilya's hands flutter over it uselessly.

His phone continues to ring. Swearing he picks it up, the anger and panic lessening slightly when he sees the incoming FaceTime call from Anne. Ilya takes a deep breath and quickly wipes his eyes. He swipes the call open.

“Ilya! Moy dorogoy, how are you? Let’s see it!”

“Hello Anne,” Ilya responds, a slight tremor in his voice. His eyes avoid hers on the call. A look passes over her face, quickly hidden. Anne to her credit, forges along like she hasn’t noticed a difference in Ilya.

“Well come on, let’s see!” She cajoles, “This is so exciting! Your first project finished!”

“Okay yes yes, but I am worried. It does not seem very good–hold on.”

Ilya sets the phone down and lays the scarf flat out on the couch. Anne hums as he pans the phone along the length of the scarf.

“Mmhmm, very nice. Lovely cast off too! Ilya what are you talking about? This is beautiful! Especially for your first project!” Something in Ilya’s chest sparks, a small kernel of warmth flickering against the ruddy dark purple of old bruises.

“Yes–okay. It’s just that–it’s–I wanted to give it to someone but looking at it now is not good enough. Is silly.” Anne laughs, a bright and cheery sound. Her eyes are so kind that it’s impossible for Ilya to take the laugh at his expense.

“Hold on dear, you’re going to love this.” She turns her head, “Poppy! – hang on Ilya – POPPY!” Anne bellows, her face fully out of frame. Ilya hears a thunk off camera and a muffled “What!” come from off camera.

“Come show Ilya the first thing I ever knit!” Turning back to Ilya, Anne’s eyes are sparkling, “This is actually perfect Ilya. She happens to be wearing it today!” Anne’s eyes are bright and her smile is wide. Ilya feels the corners of his mouth tugging up in response as he clutches his phone between his hands. The bruise recedes a little further. Ilya hears some clattering and then the thunk of feet running down some stairs. Anne turns the camera around in time for Ilya to see Poppy fly down a set of stairs, shooting her arm out to catch the banister and use the momentum to spin herself around the corner and into the kitchen. Ilya’s eyebrows raise. It’s a feat of athleticism unexpected from someone her age.

“ILYA!!!!!” Poppy snatches the phone from Anne, holding it close to her face. Her blue eyes wide behind massive purple frames. The stud and hoops in her nostril and septum are gold instead of silver like when Ilya first met her. Her blonde bangs are tufting out from..whatever she has on her head. It's sort of misshapen. “How the hell are you! Hey great game against Buffalo last week, but I mean sure it’s Buffalo, sorry to them but good god they need to get better. It’s honestly a little embarrassing at this point. What are they even doing on the ice?”

Ilya throws his head back and laughs, a weight lifted off his shoulders. “Hello Poppy, is nice to see you.”

“Okay if I could–scoot over Poppy, Jesus, you understand this is my call right?” Poppy and Ilya snicker as Anne pushes her way into frame, the two women’s faces close together to fit in frame, looking at Ilya. “Poppy, show Ilya the first thing I knit you.”

Poppy’s face breaks into a massive smile, head thrown back as she laughs and pulls off the…lump? Hat?–lump is really the only way that Ilya can describe it, off her head and moves out of frame. Anne turns the camera around so that it’s facing Poppy. All of a sudden Ilya feels like he’s watching something on Reels or Tiktok. Poppy is still laughing, her arms outstretched, holding the blob in front of her.

“Ilya, Ilya just look at this,” she cackles. “What is this? What is thi– “Okay it was supposed to be a beanie!” Anne interjects, “It’s HUGE. And it has a hole or two, and not just the hole for my head,” Poppy shakes the knitwear as she talks over Anne, laughing. “Look! Look here on the side.” She moves closer to the camera and turns the beanie around. On the side is a hole at least an inch or two wide. Ilya laughs despite himself, his hand coming up to cover his smile.

“I have to roll it up like three times to one; cover the hole in the side–Honestly, what happened there Anne?, and two; so that it’s small enough to fit my head. Truly, if it had a hole at the top it would make a great shawl, but alas it’s a ‘beanie.’” She brings her fingers up to bend around the quotation marks, the beanies clasped between her thumb and fourth finger in her left hand. Ilya watches as its own weight makes it sag downwards a little.

“Okay okay,” Anne laughs as she flips the camera around. “Look Ilya, I’m being perfectly truthful when I say your scarf looks amazing, especially for your first time. But to be honest, it’s not about how it looks. You spent hours on making something, for someone. If they are important enough to you to do that, they’ll understand and they’ll love it. I promise.” Her eyes gaze down at the phone kindly and Ilya feels his cheeks pink a little, feeling so much better about himself than ten minutes ago.

“Yes. Okay, yes you are right Anne.”

“Of course she is!” Poppy has pushed her way back in frame, Anne rolls her eyes as she is unceremoniously manhandled towards the back of the frame “Honestly, it’s my phone, my kitchen, and my friend,” Ilya hears from behind the beanie, which is currently blocking Anne from the call.

“Ilya, Anne gave me this beanie years ago and it’s absurd. Look at it! She changed yarn halfway through!”

“–Poppy, I ran out, I've told you this!”

”—but I absolutely adore this hat,” Poppy talks over Anne. “I wear it all the time, not because it's perfect but because it was made by Anne. I have an Anne original, the first Anne original.”

“Okay. Okay you have talked me off ledge. I will send scarf to my friend. Thank you ladies,” Ilya winks down at the two women, Anne back in frame after wrestling her phone back from Poppy. “I must go. I will talk to you later, yes?”

“Bye Ilya!” The two women say in unison, “That wink, oh my god Anne did you see that win–” The screen goes black and Ilya is met with his reflection grinning widely down at it.

He feels much better after talking with Anne and is quietly glad that she called him. He needed that, because Ilya knows he would have spiraled further alone in his home. Now decently removed from his semi-spiral, Ilya takes a moment and really thinks about Shane and how he would react to receiving something Ilya made for him.

I don’t know that side of you at all.

Ilya smiles to himself. He was wrong. There was no way that Shane wouldn’t love this scarf. He’s sentimental like that. And yeah, Ilya is working on his self-worth issues but between Anne and the way that things seem to have settled and solidified between him and Shane, Ilya knows that his thoughts weren’t true, just years of anxieties that he’s still chipping away at. Ilya inhales deeply, holds it for a four count, and exhales for a four count. He shakes his arms out.

“Da. Da. Da da da. Let’s go.”

He rolls the scarf up and makes his way to his car, intending to drop the scarf off at the post office today. It would make for a nice surprise for Shane in a few days. But, suddenly Ilya pauses at the door, a small thought worming its way into his head. What if? Yes, yes that could work. Ilya turns around and heads into his bedroom.

Fifteen minutes later, Ilya is in the car wearing a fresh shirt, heading to the post-office, a bundle on the seat next to him.

A Few Days Later

Shane gets home from practice to a small package on his front steps. He makes a questioning noise, but stoops down to pick it up to see who it’s from. Addressed to Shane “Second Best in the League” Hollander pretty much answers his question. He notices the return name is Lily “The GOAT” Raider and that the address is Ilya’s. Warmth spreads throughout his chest as he chuckles to himself. He shifts the package to his hip, hiking his duffel bag higher up his shoulder as he unlocks his front door.

Shane makes his way through his house, the lights blooming into warmth as they are programmed to do when his front door unlocks. He gently places the package in the middle of the table, patting it once, before making his way to the laundry room where he empties his duffel bag into the washer and starts the load. He peeks his head around the corner to look towards the kitchen, the package still on the table, spotlit by the lamp hanging down from the ceiling. Shane nods once to himself and goes to take a shower.

Later, only after he’s showered, changed, made himself a protein shake, and gone through his stretch routine, does Shane allow himself to sit in front of the package at the kitchen table, a pair of scissors to his right. Shane is carrying the familiar curl of excitement in his gut, the curl that’s always there when Ilya is present in some form or another; on the tv, in his bed, on the rink. No matter how he is present, when he is–Shane is wired. Shane’s mind trips over all the possibilities that could be in the box, with no small part of trepidation. Knowing Ilya, it’s probably a dildo. Shane feels a flush creep up his neck. A year or two ago, the thought of receiving a package from Ilya, of any sort would have had Shane in a near spiral. He’s grown enough to know that if this was years ago and it was a dildo, that Shane would have felt the overwhelmed at the onslaught of shame and humiliation, that he would have interpreted the gift as something cruel on Ilya’s end, another way to mock him for his inability to be as blasé about sex in general, and sex between them, as the Russian.

However, Shane and Ilya–and it is Shane and Ilya–are different now. More settled, more smooth, less rough with each other's emotions; aware and considerate with each other’s tender spots. Now, if this package was some type of sex toy, Shane would feel the same curl of humiliation, but instead of shame spiraling into his grey matter confusing him with wrong, wrong, this is wrong wrong wrong while his traitorous dick swelled in his shorts, he knows the sensation threading through the humiliation would be abject, unimpeachable desire. His dick would still swell in his shorts, that's basically a given where Ilya is concerned,but more than the dildo itself, the desire would come from the knowledge that Ilya had sent this to him because he can’t get Shane out of his mind; a dildo would mean that Ilya is dreaming about Shane fucking himself, crying his name out in bed alone, wailing for Ilya, the sheets twisted around him as he pants waiting for release. Shane would know that Ilya had sent this to him because he wants to watch Shane fuck himself with it while Ilya sits in a chair at the end of the bed, eyes hungry, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips as their gaze locks across the bed. I need–What? What do you need? – You, I need you.

Shane shudders, his hand clenching and unclenching around the scissors at the table, his dick thickening in his shorts. Yeah, the package holds possibilities and Shane is looking forward to any number of them. Pandora’s box has been open for over 6 years at this point; nothing is going back in and Shane wouldn’t want it to even if it could.

Steeling himself, he grips the scissors, and slides the blade smoothly down the center of the box, slicing through the packing tape like butter. Shane digs his fingers into the gap and pries the box open.

Immediately, his senses are shattered with the scent of Ilya. Shane inhales sharply, his mouth watering. Holy shit, fuck that smells so good. He plunges his hands into the box and pulls out a bundle of fabric, a plain black t-shirt, thick, but soft with wear. Without thinking, Shane pitches his face into it, inhaling greedily. A whimper slips out from behind Shane’s lips, the sound scraping over his vocal chords. His eyes prick with tears. It smells so good; a mix of Ilya’s deodorant and cologne and a slight tang of sweat which means that Ilya was wearing this shirt before sending it to Shane which makes something in Shane soar. Shane holds the shirt to his face for a few moments longer, his breath making the air trapped between his face and the shirt humid. He shudders as he inhales again, holding Ilya in his chest, before lowering it from his face and exhaling, stunned. Shane drops the shirt to the table, hands scrabbling at the back of his own shirt, pulling it haphazardly over his head and chucking it onto the table. He'd fold it later. Shane grabs the black shirt and tugs it down over his head, the scent blossoming around him. He shivers, his hands hugging himself as he inhales again. The shirt is cool on his overheated skin, slightly baggy but boxy, not clinging. Shane loves it, already slightly sad when he knows the scent will fade in a few days. Belatedly, Shane notices there's something else in the box.

What’s this?

Shane pulls the edge of the garment, walking away from the table as it fully unravels. A scarf? Ilya sent him a scarf?. Shane gathers it into his hands, the material soft and warm. He looks closer at it, noting the gaps in the stitches and some of the holes. It looks handmade and smells divine. The same cologne scent on the t-shirt has obviously been sprayed once or twice over the scarf before being packed up. A massive grin breaks over Shane’s face as he giggles, throwing the scarf around his shoulders and neck. Between the shirt and the scarf, Shane is surrounded in a private cloud of Ilya; notes of pepper and amber and tonka bean holding him close. Shane laughs out loud, jumping slightly in his giddiness.

Hang on, Shane pauses, but did Ilya make this? Shane blinks, and looks down at the edge of the scarf in his hand. It looks homemade, sorta scraggly in a way that Shane loves. Ilya doesn’t seem like the type of person that would buy a handmade scarf that wasn’t made to perfection. Not only that, but to buy a handmade object and then go through the rigamarole of spraying it with his cologne, packaging it, and sending it to Shane? No that doesn't seem like Ilya. Shane looks closer at the scarf, noting the way that some of the stitches seem tight, while others are loose, and how some of the fiber is slightly pilled from clumsily being pulled through the stitches multiple times. Shane’s face flushes. No, Ilya definitely made this. Ilya, his Ilya, his massive, terrifying-on-the-court, Russian hockey player partner (boyfriend?), made this scarf.

Shane stares off into the distance for a few moments caught up in his imagination of Ilya sitting on the couch with knitting needles in his hands, working the yarn into this scarf…that he finished, sprayed with his scent, and sent to Shane. Shane blinks absently noting that the maroon is close enough to hint at Montreal colors without being outright obvious. He walks over to the mirror hanging in his hallway and looks at himself. His reflection, eyes bright, cheeks flushed, smiles indulgently back at him, Ilya's shirt slightly baggy on Shane's frame, the scarf wrapped around his neck. Shane watches his reflection nuzzle into the scarf and inhale. The deep maroon compliments Shane too, bringing out the depth in his skin tone, his freckles looking darker and richer spattered across his cheeks.

God, Shane loves it so much. It’s long enough to wrap around his neck a few times, but not so thick that it bulges up, making it feel like it’s strangling him. The yarn is soft on his skin, no scratchy fibers, and it’s warm so warm, but Shane can already tell that it will breathe well, that he won’t feel suffocated. Meanwhile, all of this, and the scarf is practically oozing Ilya from the fibers. Shane finds himself caught between feeling incredibly cared for and more than a little horny. Between the scarf and the t-shirt, it’s almost like he can feel the weight of Ilya’s arms around his neck, leaning against his back, looking at the image they make together in the mirror. Shane closes his eyes and imagines the way that Ilya’s head would tilt down to drag kisses along his neck.

Shane feels like his brain is sparking, trying to orient itself, not only to a new Ilya that knits, but the fact that he is wearing something Ilya made, obviously made for him. Tries to orient that, along with the fact that this is the first package he’s received from Ilya and that it’s homemade and not sexual. Which don’t get Shane wrong, if it had been something sexual he would have been more than happy, but there’s something about this gift that feels like a hand extended across the gap. I’m here for you. I want you comfortable and warm and safe with me. It's a lot and Shane feels like he's going to burst.

Shane walks back to the kitchen table to snag his phone, opening up the front camera. Before he can talk himself out of it, he holds the phone in front of himself and lets everything he’s feeling show on his face. He feels the way his grin pulls his cheeks upwards, scrunching his eyes, the way the blush is painting his cheeks, and how he knows his bottom lip is pulled taught (but no less plush) and his teeth are just peeking out from his grin. Shane snaps the picture and sends it to Ilya before he can even look at it. Underneath he writes

Jane

Today, 11:45 AM

Jane

Thank you. I love it I love it I love it.